


whispers in the dark

by archiveofyoumom



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, No Sex, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:28:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22487128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archiveofyoumom/pseuds/archiveofyoumom
Summary: Bucky is getting better but everything is not okay.. takes place at some undetermined time after CATWS
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20
Collections: Wilder Mind





	whispers in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING mention of suicidal thoughts/ actions
> 
> I will never get over my love for bucky barnes, and I hope some of you understand:) This was really nice for me to write but please take care of yourselves<3

and my heart was colder when you've gone

and I lost my head/but found the one that I loved

under the sun/under the sun

\- "Whispers in the Dark" Mumford and Sons

Weeks, months, maybe even years later. After the end of the world- or at least the end of one of them (who was it that said the world has ended for me many times and began again in the morning?). Well, when the morning comes, finally and sweetly. When we get the better we were always promised. After there is only tender scar tissue where time has healed a few of our wounds. Once we've lived long enough to see ourselves become villains, die as heroes, and come back as villains all over again. Because there may be a season for everything but the time for war has come to me many more times than the time for peace.

After all this and more (that even I won't be able to remember no matter how dedicated I am to living in the past), Bucky is doing better. Although better is subjective and depends greatly on what came before. There are still nights punctured by screams from the past, there are still days he looks in the mirror only to see ghosts, and there are still times when he flinches away from my gentle hands. But now, there are also calm evenings spent watching Netflix documentaries on the couch in the living room (arms touching first, then shoulders, then thighs), there are nights spent sleeping soundly under the soft grey comforter when a Brooklyn winter makes its harsh appearance, there are mornings he makes us coffee in the kitchen without the shadows of a nightmare crouching underneath his eyes, and there are whole days that go by without either of us being startled by some reminder of the new age in which we have found ourselves.

In summary, things are better. Perhaps they are as good as they're going to get- as Sam, Natasha, the well-meaning therapist I convinced Bucky to see an impressive three times, and even my compulsive google searches ( _ptsd treatment, symptoms of psychosis, how long do hallucinations last_ …) keep reminding me. All horrific things considered, we should be thankful for the progress he's made. He is here. He has stopped hurting himself. He is whole. And when he let me touch him for the first time, and I felt more devotion than I ever felt once in church, I thought it might all be worth it. God is something I left under the ice in the twentieth century. Coming to terms with the experiences of a war and then a whole new modern world was not something I could do through prayer. But I have always believed in fate. I felt there must be a purpose or a reason to it all. If I had survived, while everyone I had ever known was long gone, then I owed it to them. And when the Winter Soldier's mask came off, I knew I had found that purpose. My own personal miracle. It was meant to be, in every sense of the phrase.

Bucky doesn't see it this way. As he recovered, regained his ability to express himself, it was clear he held a different world-view. Where I see fate and purpose, he sees chaos and despair. Senselessness. Something that wasn't clear enough to me until that sticky, summer night when I walked in on Bucky crouched on the bathroom floor holding a knife to his own throat ( _the frigid cold of plunging into the Arctic ocean was nothing compared to the shock of seeing that_ ). There was only a few seconds of locked-eyes hesitation before he lowered the blade, in which he said nothing while I pleaded ( _Bucky this will be the only thing I won't forgive you for please please Bucky please_ ). I'm sure that was not the correct or appropriate thing to say in the moment but Bucky didn't do it and that's all that matters. Whether he, or god, or any other higher power will forgive me is a non-issue.

But we won't talk about that night anymore. It's in the past, and we're not really worried about that at this point. Bucky is resigned to living. This calls for its own type of mourning, of course. The idea of so many long years stretched out before us can be daunting for some. For those of us born with tragedy written on our bones.

Maybe I'm being too dramatic. There have been good times too. More good than bad lately. I am writing this by hand in a journal Bucky got me for christmas this year (computers are nice but I'm still faster at this than typing and I sure as hell don't trust the internet to keep my secrets). Bucky got restless and went for a run a few minutes ago, but I can still picture him curled up on the other end of the couch- one leg tucked under him and the other laying across my lap. This morning we went out for coffee. I order the same thing every time, but Bucky is still exploring his options. We went to Starbucks and he got something blended frozen even though it looked like it might start snowing soon. He still refuses to call the drinks by their given names, despite the fact that he's reconnaissance trained with a semi-photographic memory that can most definitely recall the word _grande_. This pretentiousness is such a delightful hold-over from the cheeky Bucky of the past that I can't help but smile every time. Which, come to think of it, might be why he continues to do it.

Coffees in hand, we walked to Central Park. This would actually be quite the hike (it involves crossing the Brooklyn Bridge and almost the entire length of Manhattan) if we weren't both genetically modified supersoldiers. Up there around Fifth avenue, albeit a long way away from our old stomping grounds in Brooklyn, was the closest we could get to the city of our childhood. What with modernization, gentrification, and just the general passage of time, there aren't many remnants of the way things were back then. But up there, in the park and around the Village, there is much that has survived. We wandered up there for a while, hands brushing between us every few strides, and for once the poignant nostalgia wasn't too much to handle.

Under the cover of trees, in the only green space for miles, we found a park bench to rest on. Neither one of us were winded, but both wanted the excuse to prolong our little outing. I lit a cigarette after a while ( _I know they're bad for me but there are much more destructive habits to have_ ). Bucky leaned forward to easily take a drag from the cigarette in my hand, no trace of disquiet or tension in his posture, and exhaled slowly away from us. He is watching the smoke dissipate in the wind; I am watching him.

I try not to stare too obviously, I know it makes him feel uncomfortable, but it's nearly impossible not to. On a day like today, when the January sun is shining so brightly onto his upturned face that I can see each individual eyelash. When the rare, crinkling smile breaks out and deepens the laugh lines on either side of his face ( _what a glorious thing it would be to grow old together_ ) ( _I wonder if those lines were carved out by smiles or by screams_ ).

But that's the crux of it- the bitter to this sweet. Even on a day like this, when the verse it is well with my soul runs once through my head, there is still an aching sting. The reason why all my talk of fate is bullshit.

It isn't worth it.

It isn't worth the pain and torture and violation and every appaling thing Bucky suffered through to arrive here. It isn't worth the nightmares and guilt and trauma he still lives with. No matter how incredibly beautiful this reality we find ourselves in, I would give it all up in an instant if it meant sparing him from his past. It was cruel of me to ever once think that any of this was meant to be. Proves that even at this age, I still manage to be naive. I was too enamored by him. Too grateful to have him back. Too willing to look past everything else. I didn't get it.

Then Bucky had a particularly violent panic attack- cowering from invisible abuse and begging in whispered Russia. Почему, Почему? Over and over. Enough that, even though I had only just began learning the language (for instances just like this one), I was able to pick it up." _Why why why why why"._ I thought I had found my purpose: the reason for it all. Yet, here was Bucky, harsh fingers of his metal arm tearing at his own hair, still asking for his. That's when I got it.

Hydra spent decades conditioning him. Order through pain. Trial by fire. Rejoice in your suffering, my child, blessed are they that mourn. In the end, though, the dire truth is that his suffering was never beautiful or poetic or anything other than evil. And it sure as hell wasn't worth it.

I tried to memorize the way he held my cigarette between his lips. We walked home around noon, when the snow started coming down softly and mutely.

I suppose we should count our blessings- you can't have the good without the bad, so they say. Whether it was worth it or not, we're here, together. And that is enough.


End file.
